


Send Me Transmission

by alcomol



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Other, Past Abuse, Redemption, very painful and realistic redemption
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-16
Updated: 2018-09-04
Packaged: 2019-04-23 14:30:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14334495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alcomol/pseuds/alcomol
Summary: Murdoc has pushed his bandmates too far, and they're not going to forgive him this time. He's faced with a choice; own up to his mistakes, learn to be a better person - or lose the only family he has left.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been toying with the idea of a Murdoc redemption arc for the past year or so now, but I wanted to do one that wasn't slash and actually acknowledged that for the most part Murdoc has actually done a lot of really terrible things that a simple apology can't fix
> 
> heads up, this is going to be a pretty heavy fic - it's going to delve in detail into abuse, specifically both the abuse Murdoc has gone through and the abuse he's enacted on others, as well as a lot of talk about trauma, mental health, and all that kind of fun stuff. each chapter will be individually tagged with relevant triggers, but expect these themes throughout
> 
> either way I hope you enjoy! and I hope I manage to write a Murdoc that is worth redeeming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: brief vague mention of sexual assault, mentions of abuse

_oh, lord, send me transmission_  
_forgive me for what i've become_

 

"So, fellas, it's been nearly seven years since your last album. Why such a long wait? Did you have a falling out and part ways, like so many bands?"

"Awwrrhh, you know how it is," Murdoc drawls easily, slumping back in his chair. "If you've read the books we recently released - which you should have done, they're some really cracking stuff and I even got the crown jewels in mine -"

"Unfortunately," Russel mutters.

"- shut it Russ, if you've read those, then you'll know I was locked up. Down the old kitchen sink, right, right under Abbey Road. And I was stuck there for three years. Three bloody years! Not to mention Russ and Noodle were off exploring Asia, and 2D was stuck in Mexico. None of them came back until I'd already got out. Bit difficult to write an album without them."

"Still, three years of prison would have got you out in 2014 at the latest," the reporter argues. "Why didn't you start right away?"

Murdoc narrows his eyes. He hates the smart ones. Always so sly, knowing every little detail he's ever said, right back to that blasted Dazed interview in 2001. In the end, it's 2D that replies. "We, er... we had some stuff to work out first."

"It was a a turbulent time," Noodle adds. "We hadn't been all together since 2006, and our reunion in the Rhinestone Eyes video wasn't ideal, and got cut short not long after. We needed a chance to sit down and talk about things."

"Argue about things, more like," 2D says under his breath.

"So how long was it before you started work on the album?"

"It doesn't work quite like that, mate. You don't just sit down and _decide_ to make magic," Murdoc barks, getting more irritated by the second. He'd missed the attention that interviews got him, but he'd be cold in the ground before he missed all the prying questions. "It came together, bit by bit, over the years. But I guess we started properly working on Humanz around... end of 2015, maybe? Not long after it became clear that tosser overseas was dead serious about ruling the world."

The interviewer keeps rattling off questions, but Murdoc isn't paying much attention. Has it really been seven years? He can still recall Plastic Beach like it was yesterday, which is quite a feat, considering how hammered he was at the time. And a lot of the time since. It sure as hell hadn't been easy sailing, for any of them. His stomach tightens a bit. _Not now. Later._

The sound of his own name, as always, catches his attention once more. "...Murdoc, you're known for being very... disruptive, and you've put your bandmates through a lot over the years. Why do they still work with you? Have you put all that aside for the sake of the new album?"

"Who are you, my therapist?" Murdoc scoffs, lip curling, ignoring yet another jolt to his gut.

"There were some creases we had to iron out," Russel says. "Sure, we've had some rough years, but we're not just a band. We're a _family_. And family work out their differences, no matter what."

"What, indeed," Murdoc says dryly. "Anyway, that's a really long story, and I don't fancy prattling it off to the tabloids. Enjoy the mystery of it, eh?" Abruptly, he stands up. "Right, I'm gonna have a cig. Give my _family_ the chance to mouth off about me without me hearing and all that."

Years of careful observation means he can tell Russel is rolling his eyes at him.

Nobody tries to stop him, and before long, Murdoc's leaning against a cold concrete wall, icy wind cutting right through him. It's a grey, dreary day, and bitterly cold, like it always is. Shitshow that America is, at least the weather is more varied. And warmer.

He takes a long drag, breathing in and out, to the beat of the bass in Feel Good Inc. It's the oldest, most overused coping mechanism he has at this point - or at least the oldest healthy one - but it still works, just about. As well as a smoke does, anyway.

It's getting easier to think about those years, but not so much in front of other people. He's used to having his personal life plastered everywhere, from the papers to the internet, but this is different. This really is personal. Satan knows what it would do to his image if it ever got out. Murdoc Niccals, rock god and king of the world, kicked to the kerb, banished to the doghouse, left in a bloody mess until he clawed his way out of it on his own.

No. Best it never gets out.

He takes another long drag, letting the nicotine take the edge off his nerves. He should have expected questions like this, and probably should have done more to prepare, but it's not as bad as it could have been, definitely not as bad as it would have been a few years ago. He's getting there. Slowly.

He still remembers the day it started. Bloody typical, really; the drugs have washed away most of the good moments in his life, but they've barely touched all of the bad ones. Still. There's a lot of those to choose from. Some of them are starting to blur at the edges, or sink into depths that only nightmares can drag them from, but not this one.

He doesn't like remembering it.

But he does anyway.

 

* * *

 

 

Even though it's been a good couple months, he still can't get used to being out of prison. Three years behind bars, underground, barely seeing anyone except Cyborg. Left alone with only his thoughts and his less-than-stellar memories of his previous prison stays. And withdrawal had been a killer; endless hours of vomiting and hallucinating and _listen, you limey fuck, you even think of calling for the guards and I'll fucking kill you -_

But he's out now. He's _free_ , and with luck and some better planning, he'll never be imprisoned again. And he's got a new album to work on. With his band. His band, the only constants in his life. Sure, they've had their ups and downs, their breaks, but in the end, they always come back to him.

Russel had been the first to return; he'd said something about North Korea that sounded like a load of bollocks, and not much else since. He's been acting... _weird_. Weirder than Murdoc remembers. He jumps at the smallest sounds, wedged his bed into the corner of his room the moment he moved in, and refuses to answer any phone calls. He's only got worse since Noodle turned up; the two of them spend hours together, holed up in her room, talking about something Murdoc isn't allowed to know about.

Noodle... is not talking to Murdoc. At all. When she'd first burst out of her FedEx crate, just like she had over ten years ago, they'd had their second tearful reunion, complete with hugging and crying and a lot of garbled apologies on his end, but since then... nothing. She's acting weird too; tiptoeing between each room, fists always clenched, eyes always wary. She won't talk about where she's been. She won't talk about a lot of things.

And, after enough of a gap to make Murdoc give up hope, 2D comes back from the dead. Quite literally; they'd all seen him get eaten by a whale, and well, most people don't come back from that. Outside of stupid kids movies, anyway.

"You're just like Pinocchio," Noodle had joked, which had made Murdoc's blood boil, because it's not like she didn't _know_ how much he hated Pinocchio. Or maybe that was the point. She'd given him a sideways glance as she'd said it. He wasn't sure how to feel about that.

But 2D coming back had made things even weirder, because now Murdoc's sure they're all talking behind his back. Hushed conversations in the corridors, discussions that cease the moment he enters the room, murmurings he can hear through the walls late at night. He can feel them watching him when his back is turned. It's kind of annoying, actually.

And then it happens. It's raining outside, like it often is, and he's got some garbage on the telly. Not the news, that's too bloody depressing, which leaves reality TV, which is only marginally less depressing. The others had been conspicuously absent, until now; they all shuffle awkwardly into the room, bumping against each other, each looking more awkward than the last.

"Murdoc, we need to talk," Russel says at last.

"That makes a change."

_"Now."_

With more theatrics than are strictly necessary, Murdoc sighs, switching off the TV. "Alright, fine, what is it? You lot done conspiring behind my back? Ready to actually talk to me face to face?"

"Yes." It's Noodle who speaks up next, which surprises him; she hasn't spoken to him in weeks. "We've been talking about... Plastic Beach. Only 2D was there for all of it, so he had to fill us in, and..."

The silence drags out, to the point where it's uncomfortable. It's making him feel weird, so more to break it anything else, he snaps, "And what?"

"And you," 2D says. "Everything you did. It's -" He scratches his head, grimacing; always a sign he's thinking harder than he probably should. It can't be good for him, Murdoc thinks. "I dunno, Murdoc, I've put up with a lot from you over the years. You've always been a tosser to me, and I always let it slide, but... well, you kidnapped me. You held me prisoner on an island for _years_. You had a whale guard me, and you know I hate whales, and I mean, that whale ended up eating me! I was right to be scared! But you didn't care, you beat me into submission so you could make the stupid sodding album. And I don't know if I can let that slide."

"I didn't kidnap you," Murdoc argues, "the Boogieman did. We made a bloody ident out of it. You should know that, you dullard."

"Did you hear anything I just said?" 2D asks, and there's something new in those voidlike eyes of his, something sharper and clearer. "Do you even care? Am I anything more to you than a voice to make you money? I thought - I thought we were mates. But I've been talking to Noodle and Russel about it, and... mates don't do that. Mates don't fight each other, they don't hurt each other, they don't steal each other's girlfriends -"

"You're not still mad about that, are you?" Murdoc scoffs. "That was ages ago."

"Yes, I'm still fucking mad!" 2D shouts, and that gets Murdoc's attention, because 2D doesn't shout, and he definitely doesn't swear like that. "You didn't even care about her, you just wanted to upset me! You never _stopped_ upsetting me! And I'm tired of it!"

He wants to argue against that, but he can't, not with everyone here. So he settles for scowling, and waiting for someone else to speak. He hopes it's not Noodle. He really hopes it's not Noodle. But, of course, it's Noodle.

"I asked 2D about the robot I saw," she says flatly. "I was gone so quickly, I couldn't be sure, but he confirmed what I suspected. You made a clone of me. You gave her my name, my instruments, my everything. You _replaced_ me."

"No, I didn't, love, I just -"

_"Don't,"_ she hisses, her voice full of venom, and oh, she definitely gets that from him. "Don't you _dare_ call me love. You don't _deserve_ to call yourself my brother. You nearly got me killed, you abandoned me, you replaced me with a knockoff. Let me make this very clear." She steps toward him, and all he can see is the child soldier she once was, the soldier she still is, and God, he hates it. "I will _never_ forgive you for this, Murdoc. You're not my brother. You're not my friend. You are _nothing_ to me."

2D had shaken his defenses, but Noodle's words are what really knock them down. For the first time in possibly his entire life, he has nothing to say. No comeback, no cutting remark, nothing. Just guilty silence.

Noodle can't meet his eyes as she steps back, which is just as well, because he can't meet hers either. 2D clears his throat awkwardly, voice shaking a little. "Look, we - we need to work on this album, and all that, but... we can't do it. Not while you're here. You've gone too far this time, and we can't - we _won't_ put up with it anymore."

He doesn't say anything more; it takes Murdoc a moment to get it. "You're not kicking me out, are you?"

"From the band? No. You're the frontman. The fans would go mental. God knows why, but they still love you. No, we just want you out of here. We can do most of this without you."

"You can't kick me out! I was the one given this sodding flat! I have as much right to be here as the rest of you!"

"Man, please don't make me drag you out," Russel says at last, sounding tired, and Murdoc finally gets to his feet, stumbling on suddenly shaky legs, practically throwing himself at Russel.

"Russ, come on. We're mates, aren't we? You're not mad at me, are you?"

"I've been mad at you ever since I broke your nose," Russel rebuffs, grabbing Murdoc by the collar and holding him at arm's length. "I never stopped being mad at you, because you never stopped being an asshole. Look what happened when I wasn't there to keep you in line. No, you're too far gone. We've talked to the guys in suits, and they've arranged for your own flat. There's a cab due..." He glances at the clock. "...right about now, to take you there." Murdoc goes to protest, and he says swiftly, "I don't care if you're gonna make a scene, I will throw you out of here if I have to. Don't make this harder than it is, Muds."

"Harder than it is?" Murdoc screeches. "You're throwing me out of my own home! You're not letting me work on my own fucking album! You're abandoning me! And you want me not to make a scene?" He shoves Russel hard in the chest, which the other man blocks effortlessly. "Well, fuck you! Fuck all of you! I don't deserve this! I don't -"

Russel ends the conversation by picking Murdoc up, throwing him over his shoulder, and carrying him, kicking and screaming, to the front door. Between his thrashing, he can see someone's placed his bass and a suitcase full of his stuff there. 2D opens the door, and right on time, a cab pulls up. They're really doing it. They're really throwing him out. After all these years, they're quite literally kicking him to the kerb.

Russel sets him down, and he staggers out the door, breathing hard. He can't think straight, he can barely _see_ straight; all he can make out are three figures, silhouetted against the warm light of the flat, throwing his stuff out after him.

"So this is it?" he says at last, and every word is dragged out him.

"Not quite." Noodle throws something, and he barely manages to catch it, the smooth metal fumbling through his fingers. It takes him a moment to place it; small, silvery, the metal cold against his hands, covered in oil, and oh, God, it's Cyborg's mouth gun. The gun he'd very specifically designed to be impossible to remove, because it was attached directly to her throat. Which means... which means...

He doesn't get a chance to ask. The front door slams closed, and he's plunged into darkness. He doesn't notice the rain. He doesn't notice the oil staining his hands. He _does_ notice El Diablo lying at his feet, probably being irreparably damaged by the weather, but it doesn't seem to matter. His band doesn't want him. The suits have deemed him expendable. He doesn't even have his Cyborg anymore.

He's on his own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: drug/pill mentions, child abuse, disordered eating, flashbacks

_I'll wait to be forgiven_  
_Maybe I never will_  
_My star has left me_  
_To take the bitter pill_  
_That shattered feeling_  
_Well the cause of it's a lesson learned_

 

He doesn’t know how he gets everything in the cab. The driver at least knows where they’re going, and thankfully doesn’t try to talk to him. He doesn’t really recall the journey, either. It’s still raining. He’s soaked through, and only now does he notice how cold it’s making him.

He must get there eventually, because suddenly he’s standing in the hall of his new home. It’s an alright flat, pretty decent for London. Smaller. One bedroom. Quiet. Maybe he doesn’t have any neighbours, maybe they’re all out. It’s quieter than it’s been in months.

He doesn’t bother to unpack, merely leaving his stuff by the door and wandering through the silent flat. Living room, kitchen, bedroom. Pretty bog standard; clearly not designed for a rock star. He wonders if that’s intentional, if they’re trying to send him a message. The bathroom is smaller than he’d like, with a tiny bath and one of those annoying detachable shower heads that make it impossible to effectively shower, and no cabinet to store medication in. Which is probably also intentional; 2D at least knew about his tendency to steal pills.

He looks at the mirror over the sink, running a hand over his face. The rain has frizzed his hair, and it’s standing up all over the place, just like it did when he was a kid. Just like it had that day in school, lunch time, when -

No. No, he can’t think about that. Not now. Something needs to drown that out. Murdoc stalks to the fridge, throwing it open to find a lot of ready meals, some basics, and absolutely no alcohol whatsoever. Fucking fantastic. Not only has his band left him, but they’re forcing him into sobriety. All his hard work over the past few months, making up for lost time and re-establishing the norm, wasted. More wasted than he’s going to get tonight.

It’s too quiet.

Maybe that’s why he starts. Muttering under his breath, as he slams the fridge door closed and stalks back to the living room. Muttering progressing to angry half-sentences, aimed at nobody, as he paces endlessly. Too many thoughts, too many memories, nothing to drown it out except his own voice.

He’s beginning to remember why he hired 2D; the public certainly don’t want some weird bloke’s rough croaking, and neither does Murdoc, not now. He doesn’t have a singer’s voice, he never has. Not that it matters any more, because he’s not sure he even has a band, now. He’s alone. Even in prison, he had Cyborg; she never spoke, but she listened, she was company. She was all he had. And the gun… the gun. He doesn’t want to think about it. He can’t stop thinking about it. Cyborg wasn’t Noodle, she wasn’t the same kid he raised, but she was still _someone._ She looked out for him, she trusted him. And now… he doesn’t know if he’s ever going to see her again.

And then suddenly his arguing turns to shouting, he’s slamming his fists against the walls, throwing everything that he can lift. There’s no time, no space, just him, screaming and fighting in an animalistic haze that won’t disperse. He’s spent his entire life trying to escape himself, but now he’s alone, and he’s all he has, and he hates it. He hates it so much. No fucking wonder the others are tired of him. Even he can’t stand to be around himself.

_Desperately fighting back sobs, he shuts his bedroom door, leaning against it and sinking to the floor. The entire left side of his face is burning from where Hannibal’s foot had collided with it. He’d said it had been an accident. He always said that._

_At least his nose was alright; it had never really been the same since Tony took a swing at it, and it wasn’t a good idea to do any more damage to it. Still, his skin was scraped and bleeding, stinging where grit and gravel had worked its way in. He knew he should wash it, but leaving his room when his dad was home was always a bad idea, especially when he was in this state. Even now, he could hear Hannibal complaining downstairs._

“ _Ugh, honestly, Dad, I barely even touched him. Idiot just started crying out of nowhere, made me take him home, in front of all the lads! Now I look like a right knobhead to all of them. I wish he'd stop trailing after me like a lost puppy, it's really fucking annoying."_

“ _Fuck’s sake, not again.” The other voice is deeper, louder, and sends shivers up Murdoc’s spine. He flinches when he hears one of the doors bang open downstairs._

“ _Oi, you! If you don’t stop that bloody noise, I’m going to come up there and give you something to really cry about!”_

Sunlight is streaming through the windows, the incessant birdsong outside drilling into his skull. He feels like shit; his muscles ache, his throat aches, his hands are stinging and he has a killer headache. It feels like he’s about to die. Maybe he is. Maybe he can just lay there until his body gives up.

Half an hour of laying face down on the floor later, he begrudgingly accepts he is not going to die. Groaning, he opens his eyes, and takes stock. His knuckles are bruised and clotted with dried blood; swiping a hand over his face reveals he had a nosebleed at some point, though he doesn’t remember it. He doesn’t remember crying, either, but his eyes are swollen and aching. His throat hurts, but he’s had enough screaming fits in the past to know it’ll wear off in a few hours. If only he had painkillers.

He could still just… stay there. Stay on the floor until he starves to death, or someone has to come in and drag him out. Maybe they’d let him go back home. He doubts it. But it’s easy to stay here. Easy to give up. Maybe after fifty years he deserves to give up for once.

Except he’s hungry.

God fucking dammit. In his bad patches, 2D could hole up in his room for days, barely eating, and he never seemed to notice. Why can’t Murdoc do that? Why can’t he be like those people in films and shitty telly dramas, who have no problem not eating? Being hungry really ruins the whole effect of wasting away on the floor of a trashed apartment. His stomach rumbles, and combined with the pain of everything else, it’s too much.

Fine. _Fine._ He drags himself to his feet and limps to the kitchen. Despite everything, he feels a pang of regret as he looks around; everything’s a mess, the sofa overturned, the curtains torn down, bloodstains littering the carpet. Which is admittedly how most rooms look after he’s spent a night in them, only this time it doesn’t feel like something to be proud of. El Diablo is leaning against the wall, mercifully unharmed. Fuck knows what he’d do if he broke that. Christ. What would the big man downstairs think of him now?

Everything in the fridge looks alarmingly healthy. That’s not a good start. Who did this? 2D sure doesn’t eat healthily. Hell, 2D thinks that Skittles are an acceptable substitute for a meal. Though maybe 2D was vegan now? He doesn’t remember. That doesn’t sound healthy either. Russel and Noodle are fractionally better, but neither of them are exactly pinnacles of good eating.

He picks up the least offensive thing he can find – bland, tasteless porridge – and shoves it in the microwave, trying to work out what he’s supposed to do. He’s pretty much been barred from working on the album, at least for now, which means he’s technically violating the terms for his prison release. But the suits have given him this place, haven’t they? It would have been a lot easier to throw him back in jail and be done with it. So maybe they’re not completely washing their hands of him, not yet. It’s not much, but it’s a start.

He mulls it over as he eats his meagre breakfast. Last night had seemed pretty final, but they’d also been very… emotional. Maybe they’re not as upset as they were acting. Maybe they’re just trying to scare him. Yes, that’s a possibility. Lock him out for a bit, strike the fear of God into his heart or whatever, then let him back in with a slap on the wrist and dire warnings not to do it again. After all, his dad had done that many times, hadn’t he? He’d locked him outside, left him shivering by the front door for hours, but he’d always let him back inside in the end. Mostly. More than half the time.

Out of nowhere, his phone rings, scaring the living daylights out of him; he just about manages not to spill the porridge, but it’s a close call. His heart rate shoots up far too high for someone his age, and the blood is pounding in his ears, but he scrabbles for his phone, peering at the name. It’s Russel. It’s really, actually Russel. He blinks hard to make sure he’s not dreaming, but the name stays, and, hardly daring to breathe, he answers.

“Are you done having a tantrum?”

“Piss off, Russ.” Oh, this isn’t a good start. Bollocks. Making a concentrated effort to sound less hostile, he adds, “I didn’t have a good night.”

“I know. Got a text saying you’ve gone and trashed the place. I hope you know any repairs are gonna come straight out of your account.”

“Wh – are you _spying_ on me?”

“Muds, trust me, I would rather walk on broken glass than spend all day watching you. No, we’ve just hired someone to check up on you every few days to make sure you’re not dead.”

“I’m nearly fifty years old, Russel.”

He can hear a heavy sigh on the other end. “Muds, do you remember that night we went to a party without you, and when we got back, you were high off your ass on cocaine and were convinced the shower head was the Grim Reaper coming for your soul?”

“Er… no?”

“Exactly. You can’t be trusted on your own. Anyway, if you’d stop arguing for two seconds, I will tell you how shit’s gonna go down from now on.”

“You made that clear last night,” Murdoc says sourly. “You wanted me gone. I’m gone.”

“Look, you obviously weren’t gonna listen to anything rational last night. I know it was – a lot to take in. So we agreed to get you out, let you throw a fit, and then, when you’d calmed down, you’d listen to us.”

“How long have you been planning this?”

“You don’t want me to answer that,” Russel says heavily. He’s right. He doesn’t. “Anyway. Here’s what’s gonna happen. You are going to clean up your act, and I mean _really_ clean up your act. No more drugs. No more abuse. You are going to deal with the consequences of what you’ve done, and at some point, you’re going to apologise to all of us.”

“That’s _it?”_ Murdoc says incredulously. “Mate, I could have apologised to you all last night!”

“No, you couldn’t. Firstly, the sheer magnitude of bullshit you have pulled over the years can’t be negated with a simple ‘sorry’. Especially when I _know_ you aren’t. You need to think about everything, you need to realise why it was wrong, and when you sit down to apologise to each of us, you need to mean it.”

Murdoc’s quiet for a long moment. “And if I do all that, reform myself, become Superman, whatever. What happens then?”

“Then we let you come back. Look, I.” Russel sighs again; Murdoc can almost see him dragging a hand across his face. “Much as it pains me to say this, I don’t hate you, Muds. None of us want to do this without you. Gorillaz isn’t Gorillaz without its frontman. But who you are, who you’ve become, it’s too much. We can’t deal with it anymore.”

Murdoc swallows. “And if I don’t change?”

“Then we drop you like a sack of shit.”

Well. That’s clear, at least. “Aren’t you going to help me?”

“I’m not your damn mother, Murdoc. I’m not gonna hand-hold you through learning not to be a shitty person. I got my own lot to deal with, all of us have. Deal with your own.”

“But I don’t know _how._ ”

“Fuck’s sake, Muds, you’re nearly fifty. You’re too old to be pulling this BS. _Learn_ how. God knows the rest of us had to.” And the line goes dead.

Murdoc stares blankly at the screen. Then he calls him back. It rings once before cancelling. He tries again. Same response. Frustration overwhelms him, and he hurls the phone into a corner, where it leaves a noticeable dent in the wall. Bloody hell. More money out of his pocket to fix that, probably. Oh, who cares. It’s not like he needs it.

The porridge sits half-eaten on the floor next to him, but his appetite is gone. He feels sick. He pushes the bowl away, burying his face in his hands. How, _how_ is he supposed to do this? He’s supposed to undo a lifetime of bad habits before the next album is finished, with no help, no friends, and no clue where to even start. Are they expecting a bloody miracle from him?

_It wouldn’t have been a lifetime of work if you’d done this when you were twenty,_ a small voice inside of him points out. And it’s right; he’s deliberately put it off his whole life, instead indulging in all his vices and impulse decisions. And look where it’s got him. Okay, admittedly it’s got him fame and fortune, worldwide recognition and respect. Which is all he ever wanted out of life. Right?

His head feels like it’s splitting at the seams. He knows this feeling all too well; withdrawal is kicking in again. God, he wants a drink. Or something more hard-hitting. Bloody sobriety. What good has it ever done anyone? Noodle’s the only one of them who’s never really touched drugs in her life, and _she_ doesn’t seem any better off. But maybe that’s his fault. It’s probably his fault. It’s most definitely his fault.

He doesn’t know if he can do this again. It was bad enough in prison, with all the memories to set it off, but he had Cyborg then. Always by his side. His own little guerrilla guardian angel. His own creation. No matter what Noodle thinks, she’d never replaced her. Yeah, that’s what he’d _tried_ to do, but not everything is hard-coded into DNA. Cyborg didn’t laugh like Noodle. Didn’t poke fun at him like Noodle. She wasn’t loud and brash and surprisingly blunt at times and full of energy and creative passion. Cyborg was quiet, reserved, with the occasional random outburst of character that made him wonder if she really did have artificial intelligence. She wasn’t Noodle. But she was still his little sister. The one he hadn’t failed.

“ _Noodle? Great job on the shoot, love. Not sure what the deal with the helicopters was, but it all seemed to work out in the end. Everyone really thinks you died, how mad is that! You’re a great little actor, kid, almost as good as me, I’d say. And our little problem has been taken care of. Good riddance, honestly. Anyway, just as planned, I haven’t told the others that you’re still alive. They’re right pissed off at me, obviously, but I can deal with that. Been dealing with it for years, ain’t I? Anyway. Haven’t heard anything from you yet, so let me know when you’ve made it safe to wherever it is you’re going. Okay? Ta.”_

“ _Er, hi again, Noods. It’s been a wild few months, wish you could have been here for it. Just popping in to say there’s still been rrrrradio silence from you. You’re going to make your old man worry, you know. Think you could take a break from partying and whatnot to tell me you’re okay? Cheers, love.”_

“ _I think Russ and 2D have buggered off. I don’t see them around Kong anymore. They blame me for you dying. Don’t worry, I haven’t told them. Your secret is safe with me. But, ah, it’s months now, kid. I still haven’t heard anything from you. I know you’re probably busy, off with your new friends, taking a well earned rest. But when you get this, do me a favour and send me a message? I just want to know you’re alright. It’s me, Murdoc, obviously. Yeah. Okay. I’ll be waiting.”_

“ _Noodle? Are you there? The fans have been going mental online, said you’d left me a message in the rubble of Kong. I heard it, and I don’t understand. Where are you? What have you found? Who’s coming? Are you okay? Are you still there? Don’t worry, I’m going to keep a closer ear out from now on. The moment you get this, talk to me. I’ll come help you out, I promise.”_

“ _Noodle?”_

“ _Please answer me.”_

“ _I need the insurance money. Nobody’s here anymore. You’re not here anymore. I can’t deal with this. I’m burning it down. I’m sorry, Noodle. I really am.”_

When he opens his eyes, he’s still curled up on the floor. A glance at the clock shows he’s been there for over an hour. Not good. Very bad. He hasn’t had episodes like this since… well, since the last withdrawal.

Why was he thinking of El Mañana again? That was nearly ten years ago. He screws his eyes shut, racking his brain. _I’m sorry, Noodle. I really am._ He’d told her he was sorry. Was that really the last time he’d said it and meant it? Plastic Beach, everything after… yeah, that probably was the last time. Apologies don’t count if he’s drunk, which he was for a lot of that phase. Blimey. He’s beginning to see what Russel means.

He could ignore all of them, of course. Stay in his ways. Drown it all out in drink and drugs and sex, the way he used to before he met them. After all, he’s world famous now. Anyone would be happy to make a new band with him. It would be easier to start over. Less effort. Less insight. Less facing himself.

From somewhere in the corner of the room, his phone buzzes. He’s not aware of moving, but he’s somehow ended up clawing his way over, picking it up in shaky hands. A single message flashes up on the screen.

_When the you’re over the worst of it, call me. - 2D_

He sits back on his heels, letting the phone fall through his fingers. So 2D still wants to speak to him. Granted, he probably wants to yell at him, or demand an apology, but… it’s something. It would be easier for 2D than any of them to leave him behind. He’s an international superstar. He could probably take over Blur if he wanted, he’s got the voice for it. Or, he could leave fame and fortune behind, and go back to… what was it? The fairgrounds? Whatever his dad runs. Murdoc thinks he liked that. He liked it enough to go back there when they first split up. He probably wouldn’t mind going back again. It would be easy for him.

But he’s not.

Slowly, Murdoc gets to his feet, shuffles over to the sofa, and starts the long process of fixing up the living room.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: emetophobia, withdrawal, hallucinations, csa mention, violence, abuse mention, car accident mention

_In a mirrored world_  
_Are you beside me_  
_All my life?_

 

Cleaning up the living room takes the better part of the day, and he’s exhausted and irritated by the end of it. It doesn’t seem worth putting everything back when he’s probably going to wreck it again anyway, but it’s killed time, at least. He’s got a lot of that now.

There’s still the whole evening ahead of him, though. Blimey, it’s been ages since he had an evening to himself, not counting prison. Fuck knows what he should do with it. What he _really_ wants to do is go out and get shitfaced, but he can’t. Well, he _could._ But considering his bandmates are expecting so much of him – and considering how few of those expectations he’s probably going to meet – the least he can do is stay sober.

He could always go pick someone up. Just like old times. With his status, women are never in any shortage. He’s been away from the scene for a long time; he should go and reclaim his territory. The way he always used to.

So why does it make him feel so weird all of a sudden?

God, he wants a drink.

In the end, he throws himself in front of the telly, flicking aimlessly through the channels. Just like he was doing the night it happened – no, absolutely not. He’s not having bloody _television_ of all things be a trigger for him. That’s just taking it too far. Firstly, he’s Murdoc Sodding Niccals, child of Satan and two-time jailbird, and he does _not_ get upset over trivial shite. Secondly, the triggers he _does_ have are embarrassing enough as it is; he doesn’t need another one, especially not something so commonplace and _especially_ not when he’s sobering up.

Scowling at nothing, he finally settles on one of the music channels, and one of those ancient programs with the charts. Old enough for them to be live recordings, not MTV’s music video garbage. It's good background noise, at least. Something to tune his thoughts out.

There’s a low stirring in his stomach that he’s trying very hard to ignore, with not much success. He knows the feeling all too well, the chill creeping down his spine before spreading all the way to the tips of his fingers. He tries to lose himself in the music, steadily ignoring the trembling in his hands and the buzzing in his head. He can’t really get the screen in focus anymore, but he holds out until his stomach lurches and he knows he’s gonna have to make a run for it.

The rest of the evening – and most of the next morning, and evening after, and actually the better half of a week – Murdoc spends in a delightful haze of vomiting up possibly everything he’s ever eaten, trying to schedule his panic attacks around said vomiting fits, and hallucinating. He’s not quite awake, but he can’t manage to slip into sleep either; instead he’s plagued by nightmares that blur seamlessly into reality, his body and mind too tired to drag him back to wakefulness.

His father comes in and watches him for a painful few hours, staring down at him with the same contempt in his eyes Murdoc remembers from his childhood. Then he morphs into Hannibal, at the height of his teenage skinhead phase, sneering and arrogant and mocking every little thing. _“Christ, Muddy, you’re such a lightweight. Stop snivelling and puke like a champ.”_ Russel and 2D fade in and out of his awareness, always unhappy, always frowning. Noodle, fifteen years old, in the scuffed, burned clothes from the El Mañana shoot, calls for his help, but in the time it takes him to rouse himself she’s gone as well.

He doesn’t want to remember the next woman who shows up. He doesn’t even remember her name. He doesn’t know if he knew it in the first place. But he remembers every single detail of her face. The bright red lipstick, far too garish for someone as pale as she was. The cheap, stained uniform. That smile. Her teeth were surprisingly good for someone living in Stoke in the 70s, straight and white and ever so slightly pointed, a cigarette always poking out of her mouth despite the fact that was probably against school rules. He protests as much as he can, hands over his face, groaning his refusal, but it doesn’t work. It never works.

He’s not expecting the last one. Fear fills his lungs at the sight of the black cloak, the dark mask, the red eyes. But even more unexpected is what they do. The Boogieman watches him silently for a while, something almost thoughtful in that blank red stare, before stepping over to him. He flinches away, but they merely rest their gloved fingers on his head. Like a mother comforting their sick child. Except he doesn’t have a mother, so why the hell did he think that? Before he has time to work it out, they murmur something he doesn’t catch, and they’re gone.

When he wakes up, he’s alone. He’s curled up in a ball on the bathroom floor, the tile cold against his skin. He feels fucking exhausted, and he smells absolutely awful, but his stomach has settled and his head is a little clearer.

It takes him nearly ten minutes to haul himself into a sitting position. Genius that he is, he didn’t think to bring his phone with him, and he can’t face going to find it. He crawls slowly across the bathroom, using the side of the bath to haul himself up, and turns on the shower. There’s no real divide and the floor is going to end up soaking, but he doesn’t care, peeling off his sweat-stained clothes. He hauls himself over the side with as much grace as a dead animal, landing in the bath with a somewhat painful thud.

He sits under the boiling water, trying to get his sluggish brain to kick in again. Okay. So he’s not dead. That’s a start. He’s probably lost a few days, but that doesn’t matter in the long run. If the band really have employed someone to check on him, they’ll at least know what state he was in, and they won’t be expecting anything soon. That gives him some time to think about what to do next.

After that ordeal, the whole ‘being a better person’ deal isn’t looking that appealing. He hasn’t even _started_ on fixing his behaviour or apologising or whatever else, and it’s already landed him a week of being incapacitated. He knows it’s only going to get harder from here. He could still give up.

Except 2D still wants to speak to him, doesn’t he? Maybe he should wait until after that. If it goes terribly, he can always go guilt-free back to his old ways. If it goes okay, then…

His skin is finally registering how scalding the water is; he gets to his feet, switching the shower off. No point putting his filthy clothes back on. He makes his way to the bedroom, briefly realising it’s been a week and he’s still yet to sleep in it. When he opens the door, he pauses; he didn’t unpack, hasn’t touched his case at all, but someone’s laid out a change of clothes on the end of the bed. Well then. He’s not sure whether he should feel pleased or worried that someone’s looking out for him. Especially if they’re being paid to care.

Ignoring the clothes – seriously, he’s never even _seen_ that jumper before, and he is _really_ not a striped sweater kind of guy – he crawls into bed, burrowing down into the covers. Something falls onto the floor, with a noise a lot louder than clothes would make. He peers curiously at the small shape on the floor. Oh. His phone. They must have brought that in too. They better not have peered at his messages. Nosy git, whoever they are.

He gropes around the floor until he manages to reach it, hauling himself back into bed and turning the screen on. Nothing new since 2D’s message. He sighs, rolling onto his back and rubbing a hand over his face. He’ll just rest his eyes for a minute, get his bearings, then answer.

Twelve hours later, he opens his eyes to find the sun just setting. Whoops. He feels well-rested now, at least. That’s good for important conversations, right? Sounds like something he glanced at in one of 2D’s self-help leaflets years ago.

Gathering his wits, he unlocks his phone, scrolls through his contacts until he finds ‘Faceache’. He doesn’t even remember setting it to that. Should probably change that at some point… he presses call before he has time to think about it, holding the phone to his ear and pretending he’s not nervous.

“’Ello?”

Murdoc can’t help grinning; he never thought he’d be so happy to hear that stupid voice. “Hey, it’s me.”

“Oh. I didn’t, er, I didn’t think you were going to call.”

“You said to call when the worst was over, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, I did. Um. That was nearly a week ago.”

“Crikey, really?” That’s a lot longer than the last withdrawal spell he had. He’s getting too old for this. “Well. You know how it is.”

“Yeah.”

“Anyway. I’m feeling a lot better now, so I thought I would. Call. Like you asked me to.” Why is this so difficult? He’s _2D_. He’s Murdoc’s best friend, who he’s known for nearly twenty years. He’s the oldest friend he has. They’ve always had such an easy time talking, in interviews, when working, on tour, whenever. So why does this feel like talking to a stranger?

“Oh, er, yeah. Um. Look, er, I don’t… I don’t remember what I was gonna say to you.”

“It was only a week ago.”

“I know,” 2D says with an edge to his voice. “My memory isn’t very good. Head injuries can do that.”

“Oh.” So this is where this is going. “Yeah, er… I guess you want to talk about that.”

“Among other things.” There’s a slightly strained silence. “Can I come round?”

“Now?” Murdoc says blankly. He hasn’t seen anyone in person since that night. The thought of seeing someone in person makes his stomach turn, which is not a good idea after what he’s been through.

“Be there in an hour?”

“Er, sure.” 

* * *

 

An hour later sees Murdoc standing awkwardly by the front door. He’d ignored the striped sweater laid out for him, instead picking one of his identical black v-necks. No point fixing what ain’t broke. He’d been standing there for ten minutes, but he still jumps when there’s a knock on the door.

He doesn’t know why, but he expected 2D to look different. But he looks the same; it’s hard to tell, but it looks like he’s even wearing the same jeans. 2D had never really got the memo that most people wore new trousers every day. Or new shirts. Any time Murdoc asked, he’d pull a face and say washing machines existed, but Murdoc knew damn well he hadn’t washed them.

Murdoc doesn’t invite him in. 2D doesn’t wait to be asked. He steps in, ducking his head through the doorway, making his own way to the living room. Murdoc follows him, wondering if he’d seen the place before. If he’d picked it out, visited it, made sure it was alright. The best flat available for a disgraced bassist.

“So.” 2D might look the same, but he _sounds_ different. Harder. Missing that frankly annoying trace of brightness that was always in his voice.

“So.” Murdoc slaps his sides, then immediately feels stupid about it. “What was it you wanted to-”

The first punch hits him square in the side of the face, knocking him to the floor. The only thought that really registers is bloody _hell,_ 2D knows how to throw a punch. In all his years, he’s never shown any proficiency for fighting – he’s a Buddhist, right? They’re meant to be pacifists. And yet here they are, him on the floor, 2D’s fists clenched, breathing hard, looking angrier than he’s ever looked in his life.

“I hope it gives you a black eye,” he spits. “Now get up so I can punch you in the other one.”

“What was _that_ for?” Murdoc wheezes, trying to get to his feet.

“What was – what do you _mean,_ what was that for?” As Murdoc scrambles upward, 2D swings again, hitting him squarely in the other eye. “That’s for hitting me with a car! That’s for sleeping with my girlfriend! That’s for nearly killing my sister, and lying to me about it for _years!_ That’s for all those bloody months trapped on that _sodding_ island with you and your drunken fits, your bad moods, everything! For seventeen years of your insults, your lies, your abuse, every stupid and horrible and downright cruel thing you’ve ever done to me, and to Noodle and Russel! And you’re – you’re bloody lucky I don’t believe in violence, because otherwise I’d spend all night doing this!”

Murdoc doesn’t try to get up again. He scrambles back until he hits a wall, leaning on it for support. “You don’t believe in violence but you punched me twice in the face?”

“Yeah, well. You’ll see why eventually.” 2D rubs his hand, wincing. “I don’t want – I don’t want to hurt you, Murdoc. Not if I don't have to.”

He knows that he should be reassured by that, contradictory as it seems. But all he can ask is, “Why not?”

2D smiles. It’s not his usual, kind of vacant gap-toothed grin; this one is hollow and strained and Murdoc doesn’t like it. “...I don’t know.”

He starts pacing, staring at nothing, those black eyes of his truly blank for once. “You’ve always been a – a massive arsehole to me. You’ve ruined my life – don’t argue with me!” he snaps, turning with almost scary precision to glare at Murdoc’s protest. “I don’t care about – about fame, fortune, any of that. It’s not worth it, Murdoc! It’s not worth what I’ve been through. You’re a wanker, and an evil dickhead, and a lot of things. But -” He runs a hand through his hair. “But… I don’t… hate you. I _can’t_ hate you.” He huffs a laugh, which is at odds with the tears rolling down his cheeks. “And I _hate_ it.”

This is very bad. Because 2D, through all the years, everything that’s happened, even Plastic Beach, he _never_ cries. He’s the incredibly irritating optimist, always seeing the bright side of even the darkest situations. Sure, he’s teared up at little things, songs and films and bloody Children In Need every year, but never like this. This is new, and different, and scary.

“You’re a mean, abusive, manipulative, selfish bastard! So why am I convinced there’s still good in you? Why do I _care?”_ He swipes a hand angrily over his eyes, sniffing hard. “You know, Russ-Russel and Noodle, they wanted to throw you out for good. They wanted to cut all contact with you. Noodle’s so… so angry at you. But I – I convinced them to give you a chance. One last chance.”

He seems to have run out of words, playing with his hands. Eventually Murdoc asks, “Why?”

2D shrugs. “I don’t know. I think… I think I just want to believe there’s something good left in you. Cause I – I read the stupid bloody autobiography, even though I know you didn’t. I _know_ what you went through, your – your dad, and all that. All that abuse, constantly, for years… and look – look how you turned out. Look what it did to you.” He finally looks down at Murdoc, and as much as it hurts, Murdoc forces himself to meet those dark, bloodshot, scared eyes. “So what’s it going to do to me?”

Something hits Murdoc square in the gut, something cold and heavy and uncomfortable that wedges itself deep inside of him and refuses to let go. He’s never really felt it before, not like this, not since he burned down Kong and gave up on Noodle. Guilt. He hates feeling guilty. He hates how it drags down into his stomach, makes him feel physically ill. It’s the worst feeling in the world. He wants to drown it, in drink and drugs and sex and anything that makes it go away.

But he can’t.

He caused this.

When Murdoc speaks again, his voice is rough and shaky and not like his at all. “You’re not – you’re not like me. If you were going to turn out the way I did, it would have happened by now. I mean, you’re what, mid-thirties now? You’re roughly as old as I was when we started. You’re older than I was when I hit you with a car. And look at you. Practically a saint. You’re never going to end up like me.”

2D stares down at him for a long moment. Slowly, he lowers himself down, until he’s sitting opposite Murdoc. “Sometimes I wonder, you know,” he says distantly. “What woulda happened if you hadn’t driven that Astra into my face. What I would have done. Maybe I woulda found fame anyway. My parents always said I had it in me. And I love making music… but I coulda worked at the fairground, too. Had a normal life. Maybe I'd have even got married, had kids...”

“You _do_ have kids,” Murdoc points out.

“Not really. It’s not the same. I didn’t really know their parents, and I sure didn’t love them, so how could I raise kids with them? No, they’re better off without me." He stares into the distance for a moment, before evidently regaining his train of thought. "Oh, right. Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe I would have found fame, but I’m not like you, I don’t need it to be happy. I would have been happy just _living._ And I’ll never know for sure. I’ll never know what kind of life Stuart Pot would have led, because, I dunno, it feels like he died when that car hit him.” He half-smiles again. “I was only nineteen years old.”

The two of them sit in silence. Murdoc chews his lip absently. He can still remember that day, just about. The thrill of the ride, crashing through the window, the impact. He remembers scrambling out of the car and finding a comatose body at his feet. And he’d _laughed._

“I don’t know what to say.”

“That’s a first.”

“Oi, you.”

2D smiles again, before running his hand through his hair. “Err. This isn’t exactly what I was planning to do. But I'm glad we had this talk, I think. I guess I don’t really have much else to say. So I should go.”

“Already?”

“I mean, I could stay and hit you some more if you want.”

“I didn’t mean… alright, fine, go.” He struggles to his feet, wincing. “I’ve got to ask. Where on _Earth_ did you learn to punch like that?”

“I worked at a fairground, remember.” 2D straightens up, rubbing his bruised knuckles. “I did security work sometimes. There were a lot of drunk tossers who needed encouraging to leave.”

The walk back to the front door is the most awkward thing imaginable. Murdoc feels like he should say something, anything. He should apologise. He knows he should apologise. But it doesn’t sound right in his head. Too fake. Too formal. How’s he supposed to put twenty years into two words?

“Look, before I go,” 2D says slowly. “I just – I wanna say one last thing. I kept thinking, when I was on Plastic Beach, of that thing you said. That I saw you as a father figure. I thought you were just being an arrogant knob, but… you actually meant it, didn’t you? That’s what a father figure is to you.”

“I guess so. I don’t, ah.” Murdoc scratches his neck awkwardly. “I don’t actually remember saying that.”

“Well, you did.”

“And?”

2D stares at him for a long moment. “You set out to prove to him it didn’t have to be the way it was, right?” he says at last. “So prove it.” And then he’s gone, closing the door silently behind him.

Murdoc stares after him, swallowing hard. So much is going on in his head he can’t even begin to process it. All he can process is that his face hurts.

When he gets to the bathroom, what he sees in the mirror takes him by surprise. The corners of his mouth twitch, and suddenly he starts laughing. _2D, you bloody poetic bastard._ His eyes are watering and he can barely breathe, but he can’t stop, wheezing at his reflection and his two perfect black eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: mention of animal death/injury, death, shootings, hallucinations/delusions, family death
> 
> happy Humanz release day! that album was what got me back into the fandom, so it only felt right to finish this chapter for it

_When the morning comes_  
_We are still human_

 

It takes nearly a week for his black eyes to start fading. He makes a point to look at his reflection every morning when he wakes up, and every night before he goes to bed. It’s not really pleasant viewing, but it feels right to do it. Feels like the least he can do.

It also gives him a sense of time, because on his own, with not much to do, the days are beginning to blur together. He doesn’t really know what to do with himself; he’s forcing himself to eat at least twice a day, he sleeps somewhat regularly, he plays a little bass or writes a few lyrics if the mood strikes him, but he can’t get into it the way he did before. The notes don’t sound right, the words don’t come. All he really does is lounge around, watch telly, and think. He does a lot of thinking.

He’s kind of surprised by just how much _time_ thinking takes up. Sometimes he’ll startle himself out of his thoughts and find he’s been sitting and staring into space for several hours. It takes him forever to fall asleep, and his dreams are just as loaded and confused as his waking hours. There’s so much to think about, and even the smallest things take so long to work through. Even though he barely does anything _except_ think, he still feels exhausted at the end of each day.

Nobody calls him. He doesn’t know why, but it doesn’t feel right to try and call them. If they wanted to talk to him, they would, right? Russel and 2D had already called him, and he hasn’t even been away a month yet. Which logically means Noodle will be next. So he waits for her to call.

Days blur into weeks. The withdrawal gets easier. He writes half a song, then discards it one evening in a fit of frustration. He’s been here for a month now. He’s still not wearing the new shirts. He tries tuning up El Diablo one evening, which is pointless, because in over twenty years, El Diablo has never gone out of tune. No calls. No messages. He wants a drink. He always wants a drink. Nothing.

He’s not sure time it is, or even what day it is, when he’s jolted out of brooding by his phone buzzing. He scrambles to answer it, falling off the sofa he’d forgotten he was sitting on, hoping against hope he’ll get to hear Noodle’s voice.

“Hey, Muds.”

“Oh for _fucks_ sake, Russ.”

“Charming. Thanks, asshole.”

“I… er… hi,” Murdoc says gruffly, shifting back into a sitting position. “I was expecting… someone else.”

“You mean Noodle?” Russel says dryly. “I told you, man. 2D told you. Noodle _herself_ told you. She’s pissed off at you. I wouldn’t expect anything for a long time.”

“Cheers, mate, that’s really made my evening. What do you want, anyway?”

“I was going to check up on how you’re doing, but clearly you’re still a miserable shithead, so...”

“No, look, I.” Murdoc sighs, chewing on his tongue. “I’m sorry, alright?”

“Well, that’s a start, at least.” There’s a slightly strained silence. “Uh. I was thinking of coming over, actually.”

“Really? Even though I’m still a miserable shithead?”

“Yeah. If I’m honest, I could use the company of a miserable shithead right now.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Be there in an hour. And for God’s sake, put clothes on.”

“Honestly, Russ, you make it sound like I’ve been wandering around starkers.”

“You have. Your... assistant complained about it.”

“Well, the nosy bugger shouldn’t be spying on me, then.”

“Look, have pants on at _least._ ”

“American pants or English pants?”

“Good _bye,_ Murdoc.”

* * *

 

He’s not sure what to expect from Russel. With 2D, there’s a whole, long list of things for them to eventually talk about. Same with Noodle. But Russel… well, they’d never exactly had the easiest of relationships, and Murdoc had definitely fucked up more than once, but he’d always thought they’d been alright. Maybe not the _best_ of friends, but… still friends.

Russel arrives at last, brushing past Murdoc as he opens the door, arms full. “Russ, wh -” Murdoc stops as the most incredible smell hits his nose. “Oh, Satan, is that _pizza?”_

“Sure is.” Russel wordlessly goes into the front room – evidently he’s been here before as well – and dumps it on the table, before throwing something in Murdoc’s direction. “Here, I thought you might want these.”

Murdoc catches the small box, a grin spreading over his face. “My Lucky Lungs! You’re on fire tonight. What’s all this for, then?”

“Sometimes I wanna eat something unhealthy without being judged for it,” Russel says, sitting down at one end of the sofa and gesturing for Murdoc to join him. “And you’re the unhealthiest person I know, so you can’t say shit.”

“Fair enough,” Murdoc agrees, rummaging through his pockets for his lighter. “In that case, I hope you don’t mind if I light one up, it’s been ages and I’m bloody gasping.”

“Sure.”

Murdoc can’t decide what’s better, the first drag on a cigarette he’s had in a month, or the first bite of something that is deliciously fat and greasy and bad for him. Russel even got him pineapple, despite his constant insistence that pineapple on pizza was wrong and unholy and the main reason above all else that Murdoc was going to Hell.

“So,” Murdoc says through a mouthful of pizza, “I’m guessing you wanted to talk to me about something.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Russel watches him through narrowed eyes for a while before continuing. “Remember how we first met?”

“Err. Vaguely. I seem to recall it involved kidnapping.” Murdoc’s honestly not sure why he did that. Everyone had known Russel was into music in a big way; he probably would have come with him if he’d just asked. But no, he’d slipped a bag over his head and dragged him all the way to Kong. “I got a lot of weird looks on the tube for that.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Russel says dryly. “By all accounts, I shoulda run for it the moment you took the bag off. But I stayed, I listened to your demos, I agreed to join your band. You know why?”

“Because my demos were the best thing you’d ever heard and you wanted to be a part of making history?” Murdoc suggests.

Russel huffs a laugh. “Mostly. But also… I kinda saw myself in you.”

“Blimey, Russ,” Murdoc says, aghast. “Don’t put yourself down like that.”

“Ha ha. Seriously, though. Ambitious dude, love of music as an escape from a bad childhood, lotta anger at the world and how it’s treated you. Did a lot of bad stuff that maybe wasn’t entirely your fault. Determined to do better. Yeah, I saw myself in you. Which was a little worrying because you had almost a decade on me.”

“You worked all that out within five minutes of meeting me?” Murdoc asks blankly.

“I could see it in your eyes. It’s always in the eyes.”

“Is it? There aren’t even pupils in yours.”

“Shut up, Muds.” Russel’s quiet for a long while, chewing on his slice thoughtfully. “I listened to you talk about your past in interviews. I offered up my own past. I _really_ spilled it all out for the autobiography. I always kinda hoped you’d come talk to me about it. And when I realised you never would, I hoped you’d at least see how I was coping and recovering from it all, and maybe it’d inspire you to do the same. But it didn’t. You kept repeating the same mistakes, over and over, and all I did was try and keep you in line. And most of the time I couldn’t even do that.”

“Oh, come on, Russ.” Murdoc takes a long drag, blowing a plume of smoke above his head and hoping the fire alarm doesn’t pick it up. “That seems a little unfair. You’re not my bloody handler; it wasn’t your job to stop me being a bastard. It wasn’t your fault I didn’t want to talk to you.”

“Wow.” Russel whistles through his teeth. “You really are changing.”

“What?”

“I don’t think you’ve never admitted something was your fault before.”

“I didn’t say that,” Murdoc protests awkwardly, “I just said it wasn’t _your_ fault.”

“Yeah, yeah, sure. Anyway. You got worse, and no matter how many times we gave you another chance, nothing ever changed. You wouldn’t talk to me then.” Russel’s staring at him intently, his blank white eyes unusually sharp. “So talk to me now.”

Murdoc shifts, suddenly uncomfortable. He’d never really liked the way Russel talked about his past, Del, the possession and exorcism, the shooting. It had never been throwaway or casual, the way Murdoc talked about things. Russel was always serious, in-depth, giving the memories the time and emotion they deserved. The way they should be talked about, probably. It never seemed to make him happy, though.

“I dunno, Russ. What am I supposed to say? You know what happened to me. I know what happened to you. They weren’t really that similar, which is probably for the best.”

“That’s not the point. It’s not about what _happened -_ ”

“No, it really is -”

“- it’s about how you reacted. Like. I do a lot of taxidermy. I deal with a lot of dead animals. There’s a hundred ways they can get injured, but at the end of the day, the result is always pretty much the same. There’s only so many ways you can scar.”

The two of them sit in silence, but it’s not awkward, merely… pensive. Russel doesn’t seem inclined to say any more, so in the end Murdoc breaks it. “How do you deal with it?”

Russel sighs. “I wish I could tell you it’s easy, Muds. I know that’s what you wanna hear. But it’s not easy. You’ve seen me. Some days I don’t know what’s real and what’s not; I don’t know if anyone in my life is real. Which, by the way, your cyborg clone of Noodle didn’t help with. I still have nightmares about being possessed, about the drive-by, about… losing Del. I miss him every single day of my life. I’m never gonna stop being pissed off at the world that allowed it to happen. I don’t know if it’ll ever stop hurting.” Something in Murdoc’s face stops him. “I mean. It’s not easy. But you’ll get better at it. You’ll stumble, you’ll relapse, it won’t happen in a straight line, but you’ll keep moving forward. Sometimes you gotta fall apart to put yourself back together, ya dig?”

Murdoc stubs out his cigarette on his jeans, chewing his words before finally bursting out, “But what if this is all there is? What if I put myself back together and do the best I can, and I’m still a nasty horrible fucker? What happens then?”

“That won’t happen.”

“You all seem so convinced of that!” Murdoc snaps, throwing his hands in the air. “You don’t – I can’t do what you do! You remember what it was like to be happy before, right? You know what you’re trying to go back to. Well, sorry Russ, but I don’t. I don’t know how to go back to being happy, because you know what? I never was. My entire bloody childhood was miserable and adulthood wasn’t any fucking better. If anything, I’m the only one who never _stopped_ feeling the way I did as a kid. So don’t tell me that won’t happen, because this is all I’ve _ever_ been, and I think I’m allowed to be worried that it’s all I’m ever going to be.”

It takes Murdoc maybe half a second to regret saying all of that. He wishes he could take it back, claw the words out of the air, because now he’s said it aloud it’s all that more real and terrifying. His hands start trembling, and he hides them in his lap, face burning.

“None of us are who we were before,” Russel says softly, and the empathy in his eyes makes Murdoc’s stomach churn. “We all have to grow up sometime. Even if that takes half a century.”

“If I grow any older I’ll be dead before the album’s out,” Murdoc says dryly, struggling to regain his composure.

“Bullshit. You’re gonna live forever just to annoy the rest of us.”

“You flatter me.” Against what better judgement he has left, Murdoc pulls out another cigarette. He probably shouldn’t, but sobriety bites hard. He doesn’t speak again until he’s lit it up. “I saw my dad.”

“Oh. I thought he was… you know.”

“He is. Er. I was… well, I was having a bad night, and I started seeing things, and… he was there.” He scratches his neck, suddenly realising how stupid this sounds. “Seems a bit of a silly question now I’m saying it, but do you ever, like, see dead people?”

“Oh, yeah, all the time. Mostly as ghosts. Or demons. Or while someone’s possessing me. But I’m assuming you mean like you did, in which case… sometimes. If I forget to take my meds, or I’m having a particularly bad paranoia spell. Mostly Del and my other friends, not as spirits, but how they looked when they were alive.”

“I felt like I should’ve been… I dunno, happy, you know? I haven’t seen the old geezer since just before he died, and that was years ago. I didn’t even go to his funeral. But I didn’t feel pleased to see him or nothing. Just kind of wished he’d leave me alone and go back to being underground.” He pauses. “That sounds really bad now I’ve said it.”

Russel shrugs. “You don’t _have_ to miss people, man.”

“Yeah, but he was my dad, and all.”

“And he was even more of an asshole than you are.” Russel narrows his eyes, brow furrowing. “When did you last see your brother?”

“Hannibal? Blimey, musta been… I dunno, before I set off to Plastic Beach, I think. He was in prison. Wasn’t long after Seb died, I mostly dropped in to let him know I wasn’t paying his bail. He told me to fuck off, if I recall.”

“Maybe you should go see him again. Get closure.”

“Closure?” Murdoc scoffs. “No thanks. I don’t wanna see him again unless I’m identifying his body at a morgue.”

“He _is_ family.”

“I’ve already _got_ a family,” Murdoc snaps, and Russel breaks into a wide grin.

“I knew it.”

“What -”

“I _knew_ you considered us your family.”

“Oh, that’s cheating!” Murdoc protests, torn between scowling and reluctantly grinning. “You come in here, tempt me with my vices, then trick me into being sentimental? You’re one crafty bastard, my friend.”

“So I’m your _friend_ now, too?”

“Oh, leave off!” Murdoc laughs, halfheartedly kicking in Russel’s direction.

“Go on, say it again,” Russel says, starting to laugh too. “I promise I’m not recording it.”

“Alright, _fine,_ ” Murdoc says ungraciously. “I don’t need Hannibal because… because I already have a family. I don’t need a brother like him when I’ve got… my best friends, and my little sisters.” Sisters. “Russ… what happened to Cyborg?”

Russel’s grin fades. “I… don’t know.”

“You _do._ ”

“Noodle said I wasn’t allowed to tell you.”

“Oh, come on, Russ. It’s _Cyborg._ She’s my robot. My _sister_. I deserve to know.”

“Yeah well. You’re no stranger to lying to your friends about what happened to someone they care about. And you’re no stranger to doing it because Noodle asked you to.”

Murdoc scowls. “...I hate it when you say things I can’t argue with.”

Russel half-smiles, before slowly getting to his feet. “Thanks for the company, Muds.”

“And you. And… thanks for the Lucky Lungs.”

“Try not to have all of them at once.”

The two men awkwardly stand by the front door, shuffling their feet. Murdoc wants to say something, especially after he let 2D go without a word, but he can’t quite get it right in his head. It’s like trying to find the perfect song lyrics, but everything he wants to convey doesn’t fit in the limited constraints of the beat.

“Look, Russel,” he starts at last, hoping his bullshit instinct will kick in and he’ll manage to waffle out an adequate sentence. “I know it wasn’t your job to keep me in line, but… you didn’t do a bad job. You’re not my handler, but you’re – you’re a good friend. A better friend than I deserve.”

Russ pauses for a long moment, before suddenly pulling Murdoc into a hug; Murdoc struggles out of it immediately. “Alright, no, that’s too far. No hugs.”

“Fine, fine,” Russel concedes, turning to open the door. “...We’re all still pretty pissed off at you, but I hope you know we’re all rooting for you. You got this, Muds. Don’t let us down again.”

Murdoc folds his arms defensively as the door closes, and he’s left alone once more with the silent flat. He doesn’t know how long he stands there, staring at the wall with unfocused eyes. His fingers fumble for another cigarette.

It only takes him half a week to run out.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: death, abuse mentions, emetophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am SO SORRY it's been so long since i updated this, i've had a rough few weeks, and it was kind of hard writing a fic where the band give him a second chance when they've just replaced him in canon... i've had to rework the story a bit, but hopefully now i won't leave it so long between updates again. also threw in a ref to the New Guy because why not

_I just survive_  
_I got drunk_  
_I'm sorry_  
_Am I losing you?_

 

It’s funny; for the past month he’s been waiting for Noodle to call, but when his phone eventually rings, he doesn’t even glance at the screen, answering without a second thought. “Look, Russ, if this is about the dent in the plaster, that was an accident, I thought there was a demon -”

“Take the phone away from your ear, this is a video call.”

Murdoc’s heart drops into his stomach at the sound of her voice. Noodle. She’s called him. Trying to stop his hands shaking, he holds the phone in front of him, and sees her for the first time since she kicked him out. She looks… well, she doesn’t look that happy to see him. Her eyes are hard and bloodshot, mouth set in a frown.

“Noodle -”

“No,” she interrupts him swiftly, with the same air of authority she’s had ever since she entered the teenage years. He used to think it was endearing. Not so much now. “This is not a friendly talk. I’m not coming over for us to vent about our emotions. I am going to talk. You are going to listen. If I want to hear what you have to say, then I will tell you. Is that clear?”

“Er… yes?”

“Good.” Noodle swallows, looking surprisingly uncertain for a moment, but when she speaks, her voice is strong and steady. “There’s a lot of things I could say to you, but then we’d be here all night, and I want to keep this as short as I can. When I first met you, I was ten years old. I had no idea who I was. I was in a brand new country, and all I had were three strangers. You, 2D and Russel were the only family I had.” Her eyes harden. “I trusted you. I looked up to you. I knew you weren’t perfect – years of watching you abuse 2D cemented that pretty well – but I thought you cared about me. I thought you’d keep me safe, maybe even more than the others, because you wouldn’t let stupid things like the law get in the way of my safety. But you didn’t. You conspired behind my back with a someone who wanted me dead, you kept things secret from me even when it was about faking my own death. And then… you let it happen.”

“Hang on,” Murdoc protests, “We planned El Mañana together, I didn’t -”

“Did I ask? No. Shut up. You didn’t tell me someone else was going to be in there. You didn’t tell me what to do about the new helicopters. But I went with it, I got off the island, and where do I end up? Hell. I’m terrified, but I think to myself, this is Murdoc’s forte. He’ll get me out. He won’t let me down. He’ll come back for me.”

There’s a long, painful silence. She still hasn’t said he can talk, but she doesn’t seem inclined to say anything else, so eventually Murdoc rasps, “I waited for you. I listened to the radio every day. When I found out about the message, I tried everything. I tried looking for you, I really did. But I didn’t know where you were. I didn’t know where to start.”

“You burned Kong down.” Noodle’s voice is as cold as her eyes. “You abandoned me. And if that wasn’t bad enough… I make my own way out of Hell. I try and find you. My family. And what do I find? I find a robot version of me. You gave up on me, and you _replaced_ me.”

“Where is she?” he asks before he can stop herself, and Noodle looks momentarily surprised for a moment.

“Why do you care? You have the original back. I’m surprised you hadn’t scrapped her for parts. Makes a change, you actually being concerned about me. Or the fake me, anyway.”

“Don’t -”

“But that’s just it, isn’t it? It’s not that you care, it’s not that you missed me. You felt _guilty._ You wanted a Noodle you _hadn’t_ let down. You wanted a Noodle you hadn’t killed.” For a moment, triumph flashes in her eyes, and for reasons he can’t quite explain, Murdoc feels a shiver of fear. “Well, I’m sorry, Murdoc. You don’t get to absolve yourself of guilt this time. It’s too late. You left one of your daughters to die. So it seems only fair you do the same to the other one.”

“What – what have you done -”

She lifts up something with her free hand, and Murdoc’s heart stops. He recognises the black hair, the bullet hole he’d never bothered to repair parting it, the faded oil streaks staining her face. Cyborg. His Cyborg. Just as he remembers, except her eyes are empty, her face slack, and her head severed at the neck, wires dangling limply down.

Dead.

Destroyed.

He’s so lost in the horror of it that he barely hears Noodle’s voice. “I joined Gorillaz to escape my former life. And look what you did. You turned us both into soldiers. You ruined both of your kids’ lives. Your father would be proud of you.”

The call disconnects, silence filling the room. The phone slips through his fingers, bouncing off the floor, but he doesn’t notice. He gets to his feet, head buzzing, before he unceremoniously lurches forward and throws up.

 

* * *

 

Murdoc’s phone has been ringing for the past fifteen minutes. He doesn’t want to answer it. He doesn’t want to do anything. He’d eventually dragged himself to bed, sparing a moment to feel sorry for whoever was going to end up having to clean his vomit out of the carpet, and that’s where he’d been for the past however many hours. Possibly several days. He doesn’t know. He doesn’t care.

His phone rings yet again, the noise boring directly into his brain until he can’t stand it anymore and he answers, pressing the phone to his ear. “Go away.”

“You can’t stay in bed forever,” 2D says, unfazed by the rude greeting.

“Watch me.”

“Come on, you were doing so well, you can’t give up...”

“What’s the fucking point?” Murdoc says dully. “Noodle hates me. She’s probably auditioning for my replacement right now. In fact, I know a guy. Green bastard who’s handy on the bass. I’ll give you his number.”

“Murdoc -”

“Don’t bother, Dents. I’m not worth saving.”

Murdoc rolls onto his side, ready to terminate the call, when 2D says quietly, “I miss her too, you know.”

He swallows, hesitantly bringing the phone back to his ear. “You do?”

“Yeah. I mean, I know you programmed her to guard me, and she was quite scary with all those guns… but she was nice. Didn’t say much. Sometimes when you weren’t around, I’d invite her to watch movies with me. She liked the action ones.”

“So that’s why she started doing all those fancy tricks with her guns.” The ghost of a smile crosses Murdoc’s face. “Remember that time she shot at a police car?”

“Blimey, yeah! I’m surprised we didn’t get arrested for that.”

“We drove off a cliff straight after.”

“Oh, right. And then she brought up that octopus. That _really_ freaked me out.”

“Yeah, even I’m not sure how that happened. She was full of surprises. And occasionally marine life.”

“She always loved music,” 2D says after a moment. “Like, I dunno if you just programmed that into her, but she seemed to love listening to our tracks.”

“I programmed her to be _good_ at music, not like it. I don’t know where it came from, but you’re right, she did enjoy herself, didn’t she?”

“I played her some of my stuff once. She really liked Kraftwerk.”

“Course she did,” Murdoc chuckles, “They’re all robots too.”

Both of them share a laugh, even though, for some reason, tears are leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He doesn’t know when they started, but no matter how hard he tries, they won’t stop.

“She wasn’t Noodle,” he says, words tumbling out of his mouth, “But she was still part of the family, you know? She was her own little person, far beyond what I programmed of her. She liked those movies, and that music, and she always tried to chase off the seagulls. She never spoke, but somehow I always knew what she was trying to say. And now she’s gone.” His voice catches, and he hates how pathetic he sounds. “We had each other’s backs. I was supposed to look out for her. And I let her down. Just like I let Noodle down. Like I let _all_ of you down.”

He swallows hard, hoping 2D can’t hear how much is voice is breaking and wavering. “All those years, all my stupid comments, all the stupid things I did… I never told any of you what you meant to me. My band. Always fucking saying it’s my band… but the truth is, it’s nothing without all of you. You’re my family. The only worthwhile family I’ve ever had. I tried so hard to escape my dad, and what did I do? I treated you all the exact same way. And now look at Noodle. She hates me as much as I hate my old man.”

“I don’t think she hates you quite that much...” 2D protests uncomfortably.

“No, she does. And she should. I really messed up, Dents. I messed up with all of you, so many times. But she was only ten. I was supposed to look after her. And I didn't. I failed her. And now I can’t even tell her I’m sorry. Some brother I was.”

There’s a long silence. He’s beginning to think 2D has hung up when there’s a low whistle. “Wow. You said it.”

“What?”

“You said you’re sorry.”

“Oh.” There’s a flutter of panic in his stomach, which is stupid, because isn’t this what he’s supposed to be working towards? Why is it making him so nervous? “I suppose I did.”

“Well, it’s a start,” 2D says cheerfully. Only he could sound that happy so soon after a conversation that heavy. Annoying bastard. “You’re getting somewhere, even if you don’t want to admit it. I know today’s been pretty crap -”

“Really? You’re really reducing finding out Cyborg is dead to _pretty crap_?”

“- but it’s okay. It’ll look better in the morning.”

“Look, I know you’re the unwavering fucking optimist, but I don’t think it will. Nothing's changed. I’m just making everything worse. I can’t do this.”

“It’ll be alright in the end,” 2D says softly. “And if it’s not alright, then it’s not the end.”

He hangs up, leaving Murdoc staring into space. He doesn’t know what he’s feeling. Well, he’s mostly faintly irritated at that stupid, vapid line 2D tried to use on him, but… damn it. Maybe he’s right. Maybe it is a start.

Sighing heavily, he rolls over, angrily swiping at his eyes and focusing his bleary gaze on the bedside table. Cyborg’s gun rests there, now all he has left of her.

It’s ridiculous. It’s just a gun. Even if she wasn’t dead, she wouldn’t hear him.

But he quietly says sorry anyway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: disordered eating, vague sexual assault mention, scars/injury, child abuse mention, vague csa mention

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> every phase 5 update makes this story progressively less canon to the point where I wonder if I'll end up rewriting that too

_There's nothing you can say to him_  
_He is without a heart_

 

He still doesn’t entirely know why he’s doing this. Every slip up, every tiny setback, and he’s back to bloody square one. He was doing so _well,_ by his standards at least, actually doing a decent job at something approaching genuine communication. And all it took was for one thing to turn sour, and he’s stuck in his bedroom again, not wanting to eat, to move, to do anything at all.

God, he’s bloody pathetic. That’s one of the things he hates about this. He wasn’t really aware of how revolting he could get in his bad moods before, or at the very least he was good at ignoring it. But now it’s all too apparent what a mess he is; he reeks of body odor, his hair rapidly devolving into a matted mess, his breath so gross even he can barely deal with it. It disgusts him, but not as much as knowing he’s been in this exact position countless times before. How in hell did his band put up with this?

He’s not sure how long he’s been like this; he’s losing track of the days again, day blurring into night seamlessly without a schedule to guide him. He’s still managing to eat, just about, though more often than not he gets halfway through a meal before suddenly losing his appetite. He knows, realistically, that this is bad. He knows he should be doing anything he can to stop it before it gets worse. Unfortunately, knowing what’s wrong isn’t the same thing as knowing how to _fix_ it. His mind runs in circles, furiously looking for an answer he can’t find, and it annoys him so much it gives him a headache.

Maybe it’s a blessing in disguise, though; after a day or so of near-constant thinking, he’s so angry with himself it gives him _energy._ It’s not much, but it’s enough for him to swear under his breath and kick the bed covers off in frustration, hauling himself to his feet. This turns out to be a stupid idea, his vision going dark as he stumbles from getting up so fast after such a long period of inactivity. He just about saves himself from falling onto his face like a tosser, stalking to the bathroom. He needs a shower. He’s so grimy he can _feel_ it, a layer of dirt and disgust covering him from head to toe. He strips out of his filthy clothes, standing under the shower head, and -

“ _Look, pal, I don’t give a shit. If you didn’t want to use prison showers, you shouldn’t have ended up in fucking prison. You fucking stink, and the other inmates are sick of it, so get in there before I make this ugly.”_

“No,” he says out loud, jumping slightly at the sound of his own voice, harsh and ragged. Okay. Not a shower. A bath. He can do a bath. He leaves the taps running as he stares at himself in the mirror.

It’s hard to believe the man staring back at him is really him. The bags under his eyes don’t age him the way they did in his 30s, but they’re still unnaturally dark, his eyes bleary and bloodshot. He avoids looking at his nose too closely – sometimes he can still feel the breaks even all these years later – but it’s definitely a mess. He’d managed to get his teeth a little nicer looking since he’d stopped doing hard drugs, but too many blows to the jaw in his childhood had made them grow in crooked, and there was no fixing that without a lot of very expensive dental work, and if he’s honest he could never be bothered. He’s long since given up trying to work out why his skin looks green under certain lights, since it doesn’t seem to have any underlying issues and it’s probably hereditary, but he’d be lying if he said it didn’t somewhat freak him out. Not to mention it makes him look entirely too much like his father.

He’s glad it’s not a full-length mirror. He doesn’t want to see his thin frame, littered with countless scars, some big, some small, the newest a shrapnel wound from his escape from Plastic Beach, the oldest so faded even he can’t remember how old he was when he got them. He mentally catalogues all of them; the ones so faint he can only feel them, the ones that still look fresh, the ones hidden under his inverted cross tattoo, the ones he proudly brags about, the ones he never talks about. The ones that make his stomach churn though he can’t remember why. He’s more scar tissue than human at this point.

Remembering just in time he was actually in the process of running a bath, he turns the taps off, lowering himself in. It’s a relief to scrub all the grime off, as if he’s physically washing away the last few days of misery. And once he’s done, it’s nice just to lie back and soak, his worrying thoughts evaporated in the steam. This must be that self-care bullshit 2D was always rattling on about. It’s a lot easier than he was expecting it to be. He shampoos his hair, taking a deep breath before submerging himself.

 

_The sound of waves is ever present at Plastic Beach. Which is a given, really, what with it being an island and all. It’s very surreal to him, though. Growing up in Stoke, and then spending most of his adult life in London, he’d never really been to the seaside much. Sebastian wasn’t one for family days out. He’d been a few times, obviously, mostly when they were touring near the coast and Noodle insisted on going to the beach. He hadn’t minded it very much – though he’d got sunburned several times – but he’d never really thought about what it must be like to live there all the time, with the constant background noise of the tide. Like living under nature’s flight path._

“ _Nice evening, isn’t it?” 2D asks, making Murdoc jump out of his skin._

“ _Bloody hell, Dents. What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be down in your room.”_

“ _I wanted to see the sunset. When I was really little, the first time I saw the sun set over the sea, I got scared cause I thought the sun had drowned.”_

“ _Incredible,” Murdoc growls. “I don’t get the bloody fascination with it. It’s just water.”_

“ _It’s the culture, innit? It’s just different by the coast. I used to go to Brighton a lot, and though the beach was all pebbles and not very fun, the pier was like a fairytale. There’s the rides and the games and the whippy ice cream and the candyfloss. And we used to holiday at Camber Sands some years. Proper sandy beach, seagulls, sandcastles… and every evening we’d watch the sun set into the sea, and then we’d go eat at this little cafe. I always had cheesy chips. It’s funny, they don’t seem to serve those anywhere else, and even if they do, it’s not the same. Cheesy chips are only meant to be had by the sea, it’s -”_

“ _Is there a bloody point to this?” Murdoc interrupts, and 2D shuts his mouth, white eyes wide and hurt. There’s a wriggle of what might be guilt in Murdoc’s stomach, but he drowns it with a swig of rum._

“ _Sorry. I just – never mind.” 2D looks over the ocean, assuming the kicked-puppy expression Murdoc loathes. They sit in uncomfortable silence, neither wanting to be the first to back down and leave._

“ _Why are we here?” 2D asks at last._

“ _What do you mean? We’re making an album. I need to be somewhere remote.”_

“ _Do you even like the sea?”_

“ _What does that have to do with anything?” Murdoc snaps._

_2D stutters on the edge of speech for a few moments, before his eyes harden. “You know, this whole situation would be a lot easier if you weren’t so bloody miserable all the time.”_

“ _Oh, so I’m supposed to be happy, am I?”_

“ _That’s not what I mean. You’re the reason we’re all here in the first place, you dragged me out here. None of us want to be on this stinking island, and on top of that we have to deal with you sulking and shouting. I know you’re unhappy, Muds, we’re all unhappy, but the rest of us aren’t being arseholes to everyone else.”_

“ _Hate to disappoint you,” Murdoc growls, taking another swig of rum. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, as usual.”_

“ _Because you won’t_ tell _me,” 2D insists. “Why can’t you ever talk about what’s wrong? Why can’t you trust me? You just bottle it all up inside until you explode and damage everyone around you.”_

“ _Trust you?” Murdoc scoffs. “Do you think I’m an idiot? Why the bloody hell would I trust you?”_

_2D doesn’t respond. His face screws up in that way it only does when he’s really upset, and immediately Murdoc regrets saying that. But he can’t take it back. He can’t apologise. He doesn’t do that._

“ _I thought we were friends,” 2D says hollowly. “Friends trust each other. Well, maybe I’m stupid for thinking that. Some friend you turned out to be. Fine. Don’t accept any help. Stew in your own misery. See if I care.” He gets to his feet, and sitting next to him, Murdoc suddenly feels very small. “But one day, Muds, you’re going to go too far. You’re going to need help. And I want you to remember this, and how much you pushed everyone away, and realise you have nobody to blame but yourself for the situation you end up in.”_

_He stalks off, leaving Murdoc sitting alone on the beach. It feels like his skin is burning, hot, prickly shame making him even angrier. He glares at the endless water, before suddenly hurling his rum bottle into the sea. As he watches the waves crash over it, emptying it of its contents and dragging it into the depths, he feels a pang of regret._

_He hates the bloody ocean._

 

Murdoc claws himself upright, gasping and choking as he surfaces. He doesn’t know what the bloody hell that was. That hasn’t happened in a long while. It shouldn’t be happening now. This isn’t right.

Coughing up the last of the water he’d inhaled, he shakily climbs out of the bath, letting it drain before staggering back to his room. Really, he should change the sheets, but that’s out of the question right now. He huddles up in bed, curling the sheets tight around him, breathing hard. He _really_ hopes he’s not having a panic attack. He’s too old to be having those. Stupid memory. Stupid brain. Stupid fucking process of recovery, doing nothing but making him feel worse.

Okay. Breathe. Bollocks, all those times 2D or Russel would try and tell him about breathing exercises, and he'd always brush them off. Now he can't remember any of them. Is he supposed to breathe in for four seconds? Out for six? Fuck if he knows. He needs something else, something familiar, something... something he made. His fingers twitch as he plays the bassline to Feel Good Inc in his head. He could play it in his sleep, and even now, he finds he can remember the notes perfectly, his breathing slowing as he concentrates. He's okay. He's fine. Now he needs to think.

2D’s right. It _is_ his fault. He should have done this years ago, when the band weren’t tired of him and could have helped him. Helped him… even now the thought makes his skin crawl. He doesn’t ask for help. He doesn’t admit weakness. He is Murdoc Fucking Niccals, survivor of everything, entirely independent. So independent he’s done exactly what 2D accused him of. Pushed everyone away. Ended up alone. And he can’t blame anyone but himself.

He buries his face in the pillow, baring his teeth in a snarl in a vain attempt to stop himself crying. He hates crying. Especially when he’s sober and he can’t blame excessive amounts of alcohol for it. Whenever Sebastian would yell at him, he’d always have to grit his teeth and try his hardest not to burst into tears, because that was guaranteed to make the old man furious, and then he’d _really_ be in for it. He’d only cried once at school, and that had been… on that day. Nobody had seen him, so he could pretend it didn’t count. And he’d always been careful around the band, a few drunken mishaps aside. He had a reputation to uphold. Not that it means very much now.

He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but when he lifts his head, weak sunlight is streaming through the window. Very orange. Sunset. He stares at it, watching the dust motes dancing in the rays of light. Absently he reaches for his phone, dialling the number and holding the phone to his ear. He doesn’t even know if he’ll get a response. But surprisingly, 2D answers on the second ring.

“You’re not supposed to ring us, you know. We’re the ones avoiding you. You’re supposed to wait for us to contact you.”

“You answered, didn’t you?”

“I guess I did,” 2D admits. “What do you want?”

Murdoc pauses, unsure of how to bring up a years-old conversation he remembered in a hallucination without sounding weird. “I, er… I was thinking about some of our old arguments, and… you were right. And I should have trusted you a long time ago. I wanted to say – and you can tell Russ, as well – I’m ready to talk now.”

2D’s quiet for a long while. “I’ll send a cab. We’ll go somewhere. Make a day out of it.”

Murdoc grins. “Camber Sands?”

“Blimey, I can’t believe you remembered that. Yeah. We’ll go to that place by the sea. You and Russ can experience real food for the first time.”

“After all those healthy meals you left me?” Murdoc says, mock scandalised. “And now you tell me cheesy chips are real food? Honestly, 2D.”

“Ha ha,” 2D says dryly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Wow. This is weird. It feels like it’s been so long, but it’s only been a month.”

“I haven’t seen you in a _month_?” Murdoc asks blankly. Time sure flies when you have no concept of it. And also you’re having a breakdown.

“Yep. I dunno what Russ will say when he hears about this, but I’ll get him to come. This isn’t a promise or anything, though. I’m not saying once you’ve talked to us, everything will be alright again. You still have a lot of things to answer for, and I know I’m still waiting on that very long apology you’re not working on. But we’ll listen.”

“...Thanks,” he says gruffly.

“No problem. See you tomorrow.”

Murdoc shuffles over to the window, resting his arms on the windowsill and his head on his arms. He can just see the sun, setting over the tops of buildings. Drowning in the city.

He should really have baths more often.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> TWs: animal death, taxidermy; mentions of abuse, child abuse, abusive relationships, car accidents; brief allusion to csa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm not leaving it so long between updates on purpose, I am so sorry this took so long... it was convention season, so I was more preoccupied being Murdoc than I was writing him, and real life has been unfortunately time-consuming. but in light of Murdoc's somewhat dramatic chat session last week, I thought I owed it to him to get another chapter out. phase 5 is making this fic more far-fetched by the second but that won't stop me

_You always said_  
_I was out of control_  
_Teach me hatred_  
_Then let me go_

 

He’d forgotten how windy the coast was, even with the massive sand dunes obscuring his view of the beach. It’s an odd little place, all seagrass and abandoned-looking houses at complete odds with all the tourist bollocks. It’s also a really long way to go for a chat; he’s been in this taxi for nearly two and a half hours. He’d also realised, far too late, that having the window down was a mistake; even though it’s unusually warm for this time of year, the wind still slices right through him, and he’s covered in sand.

Finally the taxi driver pulls up outside a small cafe, like something out of a postcard. Grunting something he hopes passes as a thank you, Murdoc gets out, drawing his jacket tighter around him against the bitter wind. The place looks pretty empty, but even from outside he can spot that bright blue hair.

It’s a lot more awkward than it should be approaching them, nodding, sitting down opposite them. In front of him is a steaming bowl of cheesy fries. “You didn’t have to get these for me,” he mutters.

“It’s amazing what I can afford now you’re not withholding my income,” 2D says dryly.

“Er… right.” For some reason, he can’t meet either of their eyes. He takes a mouthful, absently appreciating how nice it is to eat something covered in cheese after months of healthy shit.

“You said you were ready to talk,” Russel says at last.

“I was. I am.” He chews, waiting for the words to come to him. Nothing happens. “Okay, how the bloody hell am I meant to start?”

“Why not start at the beginning?” 2D suggests.

Murdoc rolls his eyes. “Did either of you actually _read_ our autobiography? I’m reasonably sure we were all there when we wrote it. My entire childhood is in there. What’s the point of me going over it again?”

Russel scowls at him. “You’re not being very co-operative, Muds.”

“He has a point, though,” 2D says reluctantly.

“Alright, fine.” Russel sighs, before steepling his fingers and narrowing his eyes. “Let’s talk about the stuff that’s not in there, then. What about your mom?”

“What about her?”

“You tell me.”

“Russ, I don’t know who she _is._ ”

“You never looked for her?” 2D interjects, looking surprised.

“Why would I? She’s either dead or still locked up somewhere. I’m famous enough for her to know about me if she’s still around, and she hasn’t come looking for me. Sebastian never spoke about her. Doubt he even remembers who she was. There’s no point.”

2D and Russel exchange a glance, and Murdoc has to fight back a growl. “Look, for once I’m not saying this to start a fight, but neither of you have any idea what you’re talking about. Both of you like your parents, and as far as I know, you still get on with them. I’m not saying your childhoods were perfect or anything, but your parents weren’t the cause of that. You _can’t_ understand what it’s like to grow up without that. All I had was a shitty father, and for all I know, my mother might have been worse. Sometimes it’s better to leave it unsolved than be disappointed, and if you think that’s just me being difficult, then ask Noodle why she’s never looked for _her_ parents.”

Neither of them look happy, but they both nod, conceding the point. “Your dad,” 2D asks cautiously.

“What about him?”

“What you said in the book...”

“Was it true? Yes.” Murdoc grimaces; he doesn’t want to go into this subject, but he knows he has to. “He was an abusive, spiteful bastard, who made it clear from the start that I was nothing but a burden. He didn’t always treat Hannibal the best either, but he made it pretty damn clear he was the better son. I’ve got no bloody clue why he didn’t kick me out sooner, other than I was a handy punching bag, but he seemed to take a lot of joy out of making me pay a lot of rent until I finally left. I hated him, and he hated me, and I’m sure he’d find it really funny how much I’ve ended up like him.” There’s bile in the back of his throat as he finishes speaking. He hates saying it aloud, but he knows it’s true. He really is like his old man, and he can't stand it.

“You never said what happened to him,” Russel says at last. “I know you told me he was dead, but...”

“Nothing to tell, really. Snuffed it just before Plastic Beach. Not even sure what it was, in the end. I knew he’d been sick for a while, and I knew he wasn't getting better, but I didn’t expect the old git to actually… Didn’t find out until I came back to England to collect on insurance money. Hannibal was in jail, so I had to deal with everything, which was really bloody annoying. Didn’t go to his funeral, but I _did_ visit his grave once, just to make sure he was actually dead. And _don’t_ say you’re sorry,” he adds as Russel opens his mouth, “Because I know you’re not, and you shouldn’t be anyway, because he was a massive tosser who deserves to rot.”

There’s a long pause; sighing, Murdoc decides to take up the story. Better to tell it on his own terms than reluctantly answer hesitant questions. “The old man aside, my childhood wasn’t exactly the happiest, for a lot of reasons. I got bullied at school – though I gave back as good as I got when I got older – I didn’t really have any friends, at least any my age, and a lot of… other stuff… happened.” He clenches his fist, but he can’t dwell on that, not now. “I got my first girlfriend at fifteen, and she broke several of my bones. I thought it was romantic. Beginning to get the feeling now that it wasn’t. And… I guess that’s how things were, for a long time. Bounced from one unhealthy relationship to another, my dear father decided he’d rather wound me financially instead of physically, and I had a lot of shitty, barely-legal jobs to try and pay rent until… well, until I stole Sebastian’s car and drove it into a shop.”

“Wait,” 2D says blankly, “That was your dad’s car?”

“Oh, yeah. He was bloody furious when the police eventually dragged me home. Said he’d teach me a lesson I’d never forget, and then kicked me out for good. And then a few months later I stole it and crashed it again, and… well, the rest is history, I suppose. Poor Astra was never the same after, though. Would you believe, that’s the only thing he left to me in his will? Bloody cheek. It’s not even road legal anymore.”

2D’s quiet for a long moment. “Do you still have it?”

“The car? Yeah. Parked it by the wreckage of Kong; knew nobody would think to nick it from there.”

“...Can I, um, go see it sometime?”

“Er… sure?”

“Thanks,” 2D says quietly, before giving himself a shake and furrowing his brow. “Anyway. Continue.”

Murdoc grimaces, trying to think of the best way to say what he wants without making it sound like every word is being dragged out of him against his will. Which it very much _is,_ but that’s not the point. “Look, I know it’s not an excuse. I know it doesn’t in any way change anything. But… looking at it in context, my entire life was a long string of people close to me kicking me while I was down. I suppose I knew on some level that wasn’t _normal,_ I’d seen enough telly to know not everyone lived like that, but it didn’t feel – real. It didn’t feel like something I could just _do._ So I was suddenly forced to look after you, and for once I had the control. I was in charge. And what did I do? I did all I knew how to do. I treated you like shit. I didn’t even really realise there was an alternative at first, but that doesn’t make it any better. I should have changed my ways the moment I realised, and I didn’t. I just kept treating you like shit, even though you never retaliated, never tried to do the same save for the odd fight.”

2D’s fists are clenched so hard his knuckles are almost white. “What are you trying to say?”

“I’m saying – that I’m… I’m...” he stops abruptly. “Wait. No I’m not. I’m saying thank you.”

“What?” 2D says blankly. He looks as surprised as Murdoc feels. As does Russel.

“Look, don’t get me wrong, Dents. I _am_ sorry, but that’s a long list of things to get through, and I want to do it justice.” He hadn’t planned this, but somehow the words come as easily as anything. “No, I want to say thank you. For being the first real friend I had. For being the singer I couldn’t be. For always offering to listen to me, talk to me, no matter how nastily I refused every single time. For always giving me another chance, though God knows I never deserved it. I don’t know why, but you never gave up on me, even when I was at my worst. But mostly... thanks for showing me that it didn’t have to be the way it was, that you _can_ be better than the way people treat you. You’re a good man, and a good friend, better than I deserve.” He swallows. “And I’m sorry it took me nearly twenty bloody years to say that.”

For an agonising moment, 2D doesn’t respond. He’s so tense he almost looks like he could shatter into pieces, and his eyes are pitch black and impossible to read. The silence is so heavy it’s a physical weight on Murdoc’s shoulders, making his stomach churn. Then suddenly 2D nods, shoulders slumping, gaze clearing. “Not bad.”

“Really?” Murdoc asks hesitantly.

“Yeah, that was...” 2D gestures vaguely, before suddenly smirking. “Don’t think this gets you out of apologising.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Murdoc says, grinning reluctantly. “Baby steps, and all.”

2D looks on the verge of saying something, before shaking his head, wordlessly getting to his feet and heading for the bathroom.

Murdoc watches him go somewhat nervously. “Er… is he alright?”

“Give him a minute. That was probably a lot to take in.” Russel rests his chin on his hand. “Much as I hate to say it… good one, Muds.”

“You think?” he says, some of the tension in his stomach easing.

“Yeah. He’s been waiting to hear that for a while. Fuck knows why, but your opinion does actually mean a lot to him.”

“Don’t make me feel even guiltier,” Murdoc mutters. “I don’t know why he put up with me for so long.”

“Don’t ask me. I don’t know why _I_ put up with you. If it weren’t for him and Noodle I probably would have left within weeks.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Murdoc shoots a guilty look at Russel. “Look, what I said about him being my only real friend, or the only one who was giving me another chance, I didn’t – I mean, I know you’re also -”

“Don’t worry about it. I know. Would have ruined the impact a bit if you’d included me.”

“I s’pose.” The feeling of ceramic against his fingers makes him start a little; he glances down to see his hand in an empty bowl. He hadn't realised he’d finished eating. He hadn't realised he'd _started._ 2D was right, though, they were good. “Though now he’s not here… thanks, Russ. I have no clue why you didn’t cut me off the moment all this happened, but… I appreciate it.”

“Thanks,” Russel says gruffly. “It’s nice to hear.”

“And you’re a – a good friend too, you know.”

“Alright, don’t overdo it. This much sentiment coming from you in one day feels unnatural.”

“What happened to wanting me to open up?” Murdoc huffs, placing a hand on his heart in mock offence.

“Damn. You got me there.” Russel’s smile fades a bit. “Seriously, though… I know the call from Noodle was rough. How you holding up?”

He shrugs. “I fell apart. Still working on putting myself back together.” He leans back in his chair, absently licking the last remnants of cheese off his fingers. “I’ll be honest with you, Russ, this whole recovery business is a real pain in the arse. I’ve never felt so bloody exhausted, and I’m not even _doing_ anything.”

“I know, right?” Russel says dryly. “It took me years to get used to it. It’s tiring. You’re feeling a buncha emotions you normally repress, you’re trying to rebuild yourself and the way you interact with others. Think of it as… I dunno, your brain going to the gym. It’s hard, and it leaves you feeling shitty, but it’s making you stronger.”

“I don’t feel very strong,” Murdoc says ruefully. “Between withdrawal and being sober, I feel like I’m ready to collapse at any given moment.”

“Wait, you’re _sober?_ ”

“Er, yes?”

“Damn.” Russel whistles through his teeth. “Didn’t expect that.”

“You said no drugs...”

“I meant _illegal_ ones.”

“Are you telling me I could have gone and had a bloody pint this _entire_ time?” Murdoc says indignantly.

“What’s happened now?” 2D says, returning to the table. His eyes are suspiciously red around the edges, but Murdoc gets the feeling he shouldn’t say anything about it.

“Would you believe Muds hasn’t had a drink since he left?” Russel says.

“Blimey, really?” 2D says, sounding impressed. “Er. Neither have I, actually.”

“What? Why?”

“Therapist thought I should try going without it. See if it made me feel better. I’ve also given up smoking.”

“Well, I’m not doing that,” Murdoc says flatly. “I mean, good for you and all, but there’s no way in _hell._ How are you even _alive?_ ”

“Search me,” 2D grins. “I quit just before I first met up with you, and that might have contributed to me decking you. It’s a bloody nightmare. I’ve chewed up every single pencil in the house.” He scratches his face absently, turning to Russel. “I hate to cut this short, but it’s a long journey back, and it’s getting late...”

“Yeah… yeah, I think we’ve done enough here.” Russel gets to his feet.

“Already?” Murdoc says, surprised. “You drove two hours to the coast for a thirty-minute conversation?”

“We’ve been here most of the day, actually,” 2D says awkwardly. “I needed a break from London. And I’ve sort of been… avoiding beaches, since I got back. Between the last album and being stranded for a year, they bring back a lot of bad memories. So today was a bit of exposure therapy.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t know what to say to that.

“You’re not the only one having to work on yourself, you know,” 2D says dryly, as they make their way to the door.

“I guess.” After the warmth of the restaurant, the cold wind hits Murdoc like a ton of bricks to the face. He draws his jacket tighter around himself, facing his bandmates somewhat awkwardly; he doesn’t really fancy being on his own again, but right now he just wants to get out of the wind. “Er. Thanks. For agreeing to meet me.”

“Thanks for talking to us,” Russel responds. “Oh, and before I forget… follow me.”

Confused, Murdoc follows the two of them back to what he only assumes is Russel’s car. He didn’t even know Russ _had_ a car, but he must do, because he’s rummaging through the boot. “I found this when I was clearing out your room, and firstly, you’re fucking gross, man. Don’t leave your dead pets lying around. But I know he meant a lot to you, and he deserved a better memorial than being left to rot, so I...”

He pulls out something, something black and feathery, and Murdoc recognises him instantly. A wave of shame hits him to think he forgot about him so easily, and then something else hits him, something… weird, and stomach-churning. He thinks it might be grief. Silently, he takes Cortez in his hands, running his fingers over his feathers. It’s a perfect taxidermy; he almost looks alive, like he could shake out his wings and caw out one of the many rude words Murdoc had taught him at any second.

“I probably shoulda asked first, but he was already starting to smell a bit, and you know how much I love taxidermy… I hope that’s -” Russel’s sentence is cut off abruptly when Murdoc, for reasons even he doesn’t know, suddenly hugs him. He hasn’t hugged anyone properly in years, at least not while sober. It’s awkward and tense, and he’s uncomfortably aware of how unusual it is being so close to another human being, but it feels like it could be nice, if he could get used to it.

Russel awkwardly pats his back, before eventually it gets too much, and Murdoc backs away, suddenly feeling like an idiot. “It’s… I… thanks, Russ.”

“I thought you hated hugs,” Russel says, torn between confused and amused.

“I do. Shut up. This didn’t happen.” He points at 2D, who’s leaning against the car. “You, you didn’t see anything.”

2D holds up his hands, looking amused, before straightening up. “Come on. Your cab driver should be somewhere around here, I told him not to go anywhere. I’ll see you… soon, I think. I want to go see the Astra at some point.”

“Alright. Well. See you.”

He waits, watching both of them climb in, start the car and drive away, before he finally turns to find his taxi back to London. He feels… drained, if he’s honest. His throat hurts a little from talking so much. It’s something of a relief to climb into the back of a car, out of the wind and sand, and close his eyes, fingers absently stroking Cortez’ feathers.

Maybe he’s just tired, maybe it’s the sea air, but he can’t help feeling like he’s getting somewhere.


End file.
